


Pretty As A Picture.

by ambien_dreams



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Assault, Drugging, Groping, High School, Kidnapping, Photography, Punishment, Serial Killers, Sexual Assault, Villain Quentin Beck, beatings, chapters will be tagged with triggers, quentin is an asshole as per movie, read with caution, small town AU, stay safe readers!, student!peter, teacher!beck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-10-30 04:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambien_dreams/pseuds/ambien_dreams
Summary: A series of disappearances among teenagers in the small town of Cooperstown, New York, sparks city-wide panic. The once friendly, open neighborhoods become quiet and reserved. Curfews are set, police watches put into play, and citizens no longer greet each other in the supermarket. Peter Parker watches these events unfold and fails to realize that he is not merely a bystander, but part of the equation.





	1. He Never Had A Chance

Sometimes, it felt as though the sky chose to open itself and release torrents of rain exclusively on the days Peter had to walk home. Water spattered against his umbrella in waves, as the cold seeped through the thin hoodie he wore. 

One foot after the other, one foot in front of the other.

Thunder cracked overhead. It was like a threat. 

From across the street, a window slammed shut. Nerves suddenly afire, Peter stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at the house in question wearily. A small one-story with soft blue shutters and lacy curtains. An old woman was peering out of a window, regarding Peter with a mixture of worry and fear. 

That look was shared by every citizen in Cooperstown for the past three months. At 7:30pm, every night, doors were locked, windows bolted, and the evening news turned on. Parents and teenagers alike waited in living rooms, glued to their couches. News anchors did not wait to discuss the missing children. 

“Breaking news tonight from Cooperstown tonight. Fifteen year old Brad Davis has been reported missing from Cooperstown High since yesterday night. Police have yet to say whether or not his disappearance is related to the three other missing boys that have vanished over the past few months…”

Peter remembered sharing a look of terror with Aunt May. She had reached out and quietly taken his hand as the news rambled on.

“It’s gonna be okay, Pete.” May smiled, eyes back on the television, watching the image of Brad appear. “We’re gonna be okay.”

Brad Davis was just the newest name on a short list of boys that were missing. 

Seymour O’Reilly

Jason Ionello

Douglas Warren. 

The change was when Howard Stacy went missing a month ago. 

After the Police Commissioner’s son disappeared, there were police cars patrolling the streets, and officers guarding Cooperstown High. A city-wide curfew of 7:30pm was put in place, to every teenager’s dismay, forcing people into their homes.

Peter remembered what MJ had said to him that morning.

“I’ve been looking through the records and piecing together my own profile.” She chucked a huge file onto the cafeteria table. Peter and Ned shared a surprised look, but let her continue.

“Whoever’s taking these kids is connected through the school, it has to be an adult who knows them all.”

“What, like a teacher?” Ned asked.

Peter leaned forward. “But I thought all the teachers were cleared? They had alibis and stuff.”

“They were cleared,” said MJ hands folded. “But I think the attacker knows how to avoid suspicion, and maybe even fake a lie detector test.”

“Right,” Ned was clearly incredulous. “Because someone in Cooperstown has the spy-skills to beat a lie detector.”

“I dunno! Maybe someone does!” MJ threw her hands up. “Look, I’m presenting the facts, not theories.”

Peter grimaced. “You’re kinda theorizing.”

“I’m not!” She snapped. 

“What are you kids up to?”

All three heads whipped around to see their photography teacher, Mr. Beck, standing there. He hand his arms crossed, and that easy smile on his face that always made Peter’s heart leap into his throat.

MJ scrambled and threw all the papers back into the folder. “Uh, nothing! Just talking about…”

She kicked Ned under the table. “Ow! We’re talking about the new prices! On the cafeteria food!”

“Exactly,” MJ said in agreement.

“Like, can you believe it? Four dollars for tater tots. Unbelievable.” Ned continued to ramble on.

“Right.” Mr. Beck raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying their story. “I’ll leave you guys to it.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Ned visibly deflated with relief while MJ snorted. 

Peter stood up and raced after his teacher. “Mr. Beck! Can I talk to you?” 

“Sure, kid. What’s up?” He smiled at Peter, hands in his pockets.

Peter ignored the blush that warmed his neck. “I just had a few questions about this week’s assignment on _Movement._ I was a little confused about the some parts of the criteria.”

“No problem at all. What part?” 

“Well,” Peter rubbed his arm. “I’m not sure how to capture my subject? I wanted to take a picture of traffic, and have the headlights of the cars blur, but I don’t know how to get that effect.”

Mr. Beck nodded. “don’t worry, it’s an easy fix. The shutter speed it too quick, you’ll want to reduce it to capture the headlights.”

“Um. How exactly do I do that?”

There was that grin again. “If you come by my office after school tomorrow, I can show you how to slow down the shutter speed.”

Peter nodded, hating how eager he seemed. “That sounds great! thank you so much.”

“No problem, kid.” Mr. Beck patted his shoulder, setting waves of sparks to Peter’s gut.

MJ had watched the entire exchange occur with a frown clearly written on her face. 

“What is it?” Peter asked when he sat back down at the table.

She squinted, watching Mr. Beck disappear into the crowd of students. “Nothing. I just thought… never mind.”

Ned had shrugged and continued to play on his phone while Peter returned to his book. 

Thinking back to lunch, Peter shook his head. MJ had fixated on the disappearances and spoke so frequently of them, that he couldn’t help but think about the missing boys every so often. 

Thunder cracked above Peter’s head ominously. Goosebumps prickled his neck as a particularly awful gust of wind pulled at the umbrella in his hand. It slipped from Peter’s grasp, 

The car rolled up next to Peter, making his heart stop momentarily. 

“Hey, need a ride?”

Peter’s head snapped at the direction of the voice. He was shocked to see his photography teacher in the driver’s seat, leaning over to look out the rolled down passenger window.

“Mr. Beck?” Peter stopped. “What are you doing here?”

He flashed a smile. “Driving home. What are you doing out in the middle of a thunderstorm?”

“Just getting home too.” Peter continued to walk, unnerved when Mr. Beck’s car followed him. MJ’s words from lunch time rang at the back of his head. 

“Need a ride? If you’re on the way I can just drop you off.”

“No!” Peter cringed at how quickly he responded. “I- uh, no. I’m okay. I like being in the rain.”

As that precise moment, a there was a flash of lightning accompanied by rattling thunder. Peter jumped in surprise, and Mr. Beck looked smug.

“Right, of course you do.”

“I’ll be fine, I live only a block away. It’s a short walk!” Peter said forcing this artificial airiness to his voice. 

“All the more reason for me to drive you.” Mr. Beck countered. “Don’t you know kids like you have been disappearing all over town? It’s not safe for you to be here.”

“Curfew isn’t until eight. I’ve got time to enjoy a walk.”

“Peter, I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I know,” Why did Peter feel so guilty? “I don’t want to inconvenience you, since it’s a school night and everything. You probably have stuff to do, so I’m good just walking!”

“As your teacher, I have a right to worry about you and your safety. It’s dangerous out here.”

Peter sighed, feeling jittery and exhausted. He was worn out, and ready to just get home. “Fine, okay.”

Closing his umbrella, Peter slid into the passenger seat, relishing in how warm it was in comparison to the outdoors. The car was very new with that fresh plastic scent, and hardly looked lived in. 

“Turn left up ahead.”

But Mr. Beck kept driving straight.

Every alarm in Peter’s body went off immediately.

Clearing his throat, Peter spoke up. “I think you missed the turn.”

Mr. Beck did not look at him, but the kind glimmer that usually graced his eyes had evaporated. “I didn’t miss a thing, Peter.”

“Stop the car. Please, just, stop the car.” he whispered, blood roaring in his ears. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Peter’s mouth tasted like blood. “What?”

“I’m not pulling over, Peter.”

_No, no, no. This can’t be happening._ Peter thought, skin going cold. _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuc-_

“It’s okay Peter, I won’t hurt you as long as you do exactly as I say, alright?”

Panic morphed quickly into rage. “No, stop the car.”

“Try and be reasonable.” There was that little smirk on Mr. Beck’s face. Peter had spent so much time fawning over it, but now he wanted to punch it off.

_Reasonable?_

“It isn’t fair,” he whispered. “What you’re doing isn’t fair.”

His teacher sucked in air through his teeth. “Don’t try and talk your way out of this, Pete. Shut up before I make you.”

“I’m begging you, stop the car.” 

“That’s enough, Peter.”

He swallowed, eyes darting to the houses that they passed. Could no one see anything? Where was everyone?

Peter’s cellphone was in his back pocket. There was no way he could reach it without alerting Mr. Beck. Maybe if he rocked forward, like he was trying to adjust himself in the seat, he could slip his hand out of sight.

_Press the power button three times,_ MJ had said a few months ago when the disappearances had started._ It’ll send an emergency message to your contacts, or like, call the police. I don’t know._

It was awkward, maneuvering his elbow around to get his phone. He had to move slowly, and diverted Mr. Beck’s attention by pretending to wipe his eyes or rub is nose. He managed to slip his hand into his pocket.

Not before Mr. Beck noticed his movements. 

“Your cell phone?” He clicked his tongue. “Bad move, Peter.”

Pulling over quickly, Peter’s teacher unbuckled himself and reached over to Peter in one fluid move. His large hand clasped over Peter’s mouth, forcing him against the passenger door. Peter thrashed and kicked. The seat belt trapped him in place, and from the corner of his eye, Mr. Beck procured a small bottle from his pocket.

“Open up.” He moved his hand from Peter’s mouth to clutch at his jaw.

“Get off of me! ” Peter spat, gripping Mr. Beck’s wrist. “You fucking psycho!”

But he did not relinquish his grip, and instead squeezed. As Peter choked, Mr. Beck reached over and poured the bottle’s contents into his mouth.

“What was that? What the fuck was that?” Peter cried out, wiping his mouth. He unbuckle himself, but his hands had lost their coordination. His fingers slipped on the plastic as a sudden dizziness washed through his system. 

“Fuck,” he slurred, resting his head against the seat. Black swells blurred Peter’s vision.

A weak gasp slipped from his lips before the cold darkness came up and swallowed Peter whole. The world rocked gently, alerting him that the car had started moving again. Peter fought for a few seconds before acquiescing, his last thought being Mr. Beck’s warm smile. 


	2. Heaven Cannot Help Him.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up and quickly recognizes the peril he must face in order to make it out alive. Along the way, he learns the darker aspects of his teacher, and tries to navigate these murky waters.

Peter woke up with his back on the ground, arms twisted painfully behind him and tied together tight. Light painted the backs of his eyelids a warm orange, too bright, too hot.

His head throbbed. As though his skull were about to crack open.

There was the taste of bitter blood in Peter’s mouth, only subdued by the heavy fog his consciousness swam in.

Eyes heavy, he managed to open them a crack to survey his surroundings.

The basement was large, cluttered with photographing equipment and cardboard boxes. There were no lights on, save for the persistently bright one that shone on Peter’s face.

The air was musty and sour.

He became aware of the situation alarmingly quickly.

Eyes snapping open, Peter twisted. His head was groggy and his hands and legs tied. His body was laid out on a cement floor; wearing a white button down and black slacks he did not recognize.

“Oh no, Peter, honey, keep your eyes closed.” A warm, easy voice said. “You look so good like this.”

Groaning, Peter forced himself to get up. Or at least try to despite his arms being tied beneath him. The movements sent pain lancing up his back.

A foot pressed against his shoulder forced Peter to stay down.

“I’m not done yet.” There was a dangerous edge in the voice. The familiar voice. “Stay there.”

“Mr. Beck? I don’t… ” Peter asked, heart dropping so suddenly that the air in his lungs dissipated. Questions began to fall out of his mouth. “What did you do to me? Where am I?” 

His teacher ignored all of them, and instead gave Peter a cold look. “Are you going to stay there? Or will I have to make you?”

Peter froze, begging his mind to stay confused and not accept the truth it presented him. Every muscle in Peter’s body screamed at him to get up, but his better judgment and survival instinct won the argument.

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, Peter laid back down, mouth twitching. Terror seized every cramped muscle in his body, but he obeyed.

“There we go. Good boy.” There was the quiet snap of a camera and a flash of light.

Peter flinched at the brightness that pierced his skull. “Fuck, please, stop.”

“I need a few more.” Mr. Beck’s voice was so light and gave no evidence that he had just kidnapped and drugged Peter. “Stay still.”

“You abducted me.” Peter opened his eyes a crack. “I trusted you.”

“Hm, that was your first mistake, wasn’t it?” Quentin moved from the equipment table to stand over Peter. His pupils had swallowed the cold blue of his irises. “Trusting a complete stranger, just because you think he’s attractive.”

Peter swallowed; eyes unable to focus on his teacher. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

An uncharacteristically cruel smile fell over Mr. Beck’s lips. He dropped to one knee, the other leg carefully straddling Peter’s form.

“Oh, come on. I know you had a little crush on me. Didn’t you, Petey?” Mr. Beck’s fingers brushed over Peter’s throat, slipping down to his collar bones and opening his shirt further.

Peter’s face burned shamefully. Every lingering stare he had cast in Mr. Beck’s direction during class weighed down his shoulders.

Mr. Beck’s gentle hand continued to wander, down his chest, thumb pressing into Peter’s solar plexus. His heart beat quickened with fear.

“Answer me.”

Peter looked away. Not trusting his voice, he shook his head.

The hand suddenly gripped his throat, lifting Peter off the floor. He cried out, squirming and twisting, yet unable to free himself. Yellow spots chaotically danced in his vision.

“Stop… please just stop…”

“Only if you answer me, Peter,” said Mr. Beck, voice so even despite the violent hold he had on Peter’s windpipe.

“Okay! Fine!” He coughed, knees helplessly knocking against his teacher’s leg. “I did!”

He held Peter in place a second longer. His eyes seemed to search for something in Peter’s face.

“We trusted you,” Peter repeated, desperate to change the subject.

“I know you did.” He left him there, fixing one of the various lighting fixtures. “That’s the most disappointing part.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Artists are always obsessed with the female form. Obsessed with figuring out how to portray women as innocent and submissive. It’s… overdone. Boring. I wanted to find something new.”

“W-What?”

“There’s something enthralling about you struggle. To take power away from someone who feels like they have all the freedom in the world, and break them in half. It’s almost sensual. It takes something of a precise eye to capture submission. To capture submission that was bred in hubris. God, that’s nearly impossible.”

Peter said nothing, feeling his pulse quickening.

“But then I found you. You’re so pretty, so docile. Of every portrait I’ve ever taken, you might be my greatest work, Peter.”

Pretty? Docile? The dark praise made his skin crawl. “I’m honored. Go fuck yourself.”

Mr. Beck’s mouth twitched. “What a gentleman.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Peter spat.

“That’s not very polite, Peter. Do I have to teach you how to mind your manners?”

“You abducted me, which one of us really needs manner?”

That dangerous look surface in his eyes again. One that reeked of lust, and Peter was growing to hate it with a passion.

“Lay down.” Mr. Beck stood, moving to the table. “Stay still, or I’ll make you.”

Peter swallowed, waiting a beat before stretching out cautiously, letting Mr. Beck work. His eyes wandered to the room, taking in the cement basement that was partially transformed into a makeshift photography studio. Peter was laid out on the only clear portion of the floor. Aside from the studio strobe light, the room was so dark and damp. It was so dark that he could only see the dull outline of shelves and tables on the opposite side of the room. There was one door on the same wall, stark white against the grey walls.

There was a staircase at the center of the room that must have led to the main floor.

“What did you do with the other boys?” Peter asked, unable to take the silence put before him. His eyes continued to dart around the basement and take in everything he could.

Quentin frowned. “What boys?”

“Brad, Jason, Douglas,” Peter listed, voice shaking. “The other boys you kidnapped, where are they?”

“Those kidnapped boys? The ones on the news?” Mr. Beck shook his head, looking down at the camera in his hands. “There are no other boys, Peter. Just you.”

He wasn’t buying it. “So, you have nothing to do with the disappearances?”

“There was no one else, honey.” Mr. Beck whispered. “There’s no one else like you.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Peter didn’t trust coincidence; especially not in a place as small as Cooperstown.

“Why should I have cared about them?” His teacher asked, returning to stand over him. “Jason was a football player, wasn’t he? He hardly fits my muse. I’ve never had a class with him. Besides, what about him could possibly be interesting?”

“Fine okay, that- “

“Douglas was a cadet; big and burly, nothing like you. You’re slender, poised, and delicate- “

“Okay, okay, enough.” Peter’s head was spinning again. Mr. Beck had brought up a good point; the boys were nothing like the archetype he had described before. It didn’t line up. But then who had been taking the other boys? Was there another kidnapper? But Cooperstown was so small, the likelihood of two major abductions occurring at the same time was beyond odd. Then again, Peter’s art teacher had just kidnapped him, maybe anything could happen.

As Peter lay there, puzzling over the insane situation he had managed to fall into, Mr. Beck’s camera continued to snap photo after photo.

After a while, Mr. Beck seemed to take notice of his thoughtful silence.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he said softly, lowering the camera. “I take you to your room.”

Peter instantly seized up at the thought of moving an inch. ‘M-my room?”

“Well, sure,” Mr. Beck smiled. “You don’t expect to stay down here forever, do you?”

He said nothing as the duct tape binds were cut. Peter was helped up and led to the white door at the edge of the basement.

“Here’s where you’ll be staying.”

Behind the door was a small, barren room, with a twin bed pushed to the far wall. Its sheets were grey, as were the walls, and the ceiling. There was a full-length mirror opposite to the bed, grimy and dust-covered.

“Do you need to shower?” Mr. Beck asked, stepping into the room casually.

Peter followed, eyes taking in the sparse dressings. “What exactly do you use this room for?”

He grinned. “Consider it a guess room.”

Yeah, Peter didn’t like that answer. “I could go for a shower,” he murmured.

Mr. Beck opened the door next to the mirror, and gestured for Peter to step in into the bathroom.

Just as he turned to close the door, Mr. Beck’s foot shot out, jamming the door open.

“Sorry, Pete. I can’t leave you alone in there.” He pushed through.

Peter stuttered, mind racing. “I can’t have any privacy? Not even for five minutes?”

Mr. Beck shrugged, but did not relinquish.

“If I leave the door open, will you stay out of the bathroom?” Peter asked.

“Fine. Just hurry up.”

Nodding, he stepped further into the bathroom. The counter and sink were directly next to the door.

Peter hastily opened the shirt, fingers flying over the buttons. He made sure to stay between the doorframe and counter so that Mr. Beck couldn’t see his form. Taking off his pants was much harder, but he managed to slip into the shower without much problem.

The shower in of itself was painfully small, but was thankfully equipped with a frosted glass door that obscured most of Peter’s body. The space was surprisingly clean, unlike the studio area. There was shampoo, soap, and even a loofa sponge that hung on the shower door handle.

Peter made quick work of his shower. It felt dangerous to let himself anytime to indulge in the warm water and steam. This feeling was only reaffirmed whenever peter would glance through the blurry glass at Mr. Beck, still sitting on the bed, watching intently.

Still, the water was familiar, despite the high pressure. Peter scrubbed down every inch of his skin, trying to get rid of the shivers that chased each other up and down his spine. The shampoo smelt strong, of old pine and smoky wood. Hands unsteady, Peter poured a little too much, but tried not to care.

After a few more seconds of washing away suds, Peter turned off the shower and opened the glass door tentatively. There was a towel on the rack; across from the sink, behind the door.

There was no way he’d be able to get it without Mr. Beck seeing him, completely naked.

He stood there for a few seconds, contemplating his options while a now familiar anxiety swelled under his ribs unpleasantly.

“Peter?” Mr. Beck called. “Is everything okay?”

_Shit. _“Yeah, I’m fine. I just…” Peter grit his teeth. “Could you pass me that towel?”

Silence. Then…

“Sure, Pete.” He could hear the smirk in Mr. Beck’s voice.

From behind the glass, Peter saw his teacher stand and enter the bathroom. He grabbed the towel, and slowly approached the slightly ajar shower door.

There was a lump in Peter’s throat that only grew as Mr. Beck came closer and closer. The cold air hit his skin and froze the droplets of water. His heart slammed almost painfully in his chest.

Mr. Beck’s hand gripped the edge of the glass door, ready to pull it open.

The action spurred Peter back into motion. He yanked on the handle, keeping the opening to nothing more than a slit of space.

“Peter,” Mr. Beck’s voice was languid. “Don’t.”

The felt trapped. Like a deer cornered by the wolf, the fight wouldn’t last forever. Peter closed his eyes tight. What could he do?

Not letting go of the handle, Peter released his tension. Mr. Beck pulled the door back an inch. In the dim light of the bathroom, Peter could see the eerie light in his eyes, hollow and hungry.

“The… towel?” Peter whispered, unable to look at his teacher directly.

Mr. Beck cleared his throat. “Of course. Here.”

He handed him the towel, and Peter hurriedly wrapped it around his waist. When he looked back up, Mr. Beck was in the bedroom, far, far away from him.

Putting his clothes back on was much easier than taking them off. The towel helped cover his modesty as he slipped his underwear and the dress pants on.

“You should rest. The GHB probably hasn’t worn off yet.” Mr. Beck called out, standing and making for the door. “I’ll bring you something to eat once you wake up.”

Peter finished the last button and stepped back into the bedroom. “When will that be?”

Mr. Beck smirked, somehow amused at Peter’s worry. “Three hours, give or take.”

That did nothing to calm him and his frayed nerves.

“I promise, Pete, I’ll come back.”

When he did not receive a response, Mr. Beck left, turning the light off and closing the door behind him. Peter could hear the distinct sound of a lock clicking into place.

He was stuck here for now.

Peter sat on the bed, unable to completely relax in the foreign space.

He laid down, but every time he turned, the tough mattress’ springs groaned and squeaked beneath his weight. Ned had told him a long time ago about sleeping in a hotel bed. He had spoken about how usually, the first night in an unfamiliar bed was always rough.

Ned. Fuck, Peter hadn’t even thought about Ned, or MJ, or May. Tears blurred his vision. Did they know he was missing?

“Of course they do,” he said to no one in particular. “They already know, and they’re looking for me right now.”

Peter hadn’t even realized he was crying until he felt tears trace his cheekbones and fall into his hairline.

The first night.

Peter tried not to think about how many more he would be spending in that bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No editing we die like warriors.


	3. Are You Really Going to Blame Him for Trying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic depictions of violence in this chapter

Ned checked his phone. “Peter was supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

“I know.” MJ frowned. She was sitting on the floor of Ned’s bedroom, playing with the small white Pomeranian his mother had recently adopted. If she waved her hand above the dog’s (Missy, as Ned had informed her) head, he would spin around in a tight circle before rolling over onto his belly. “Did he send you a text? Call you?”

Ned shook his head, eyes still glued to his phone.

“Maybe he got caught up with something? We can swing by, see if he’s home.” MJ asked, ignoring the jolt of worry that struck. Missy whine for her to rub his belly.

“We’ll have to be quick, it’s already six thirty.”

They left Ned’s house, Mrs. Leeds giving them a worried glance before letting them go. MJ picked up her bike that she’d left outside Ned’s garage. Rain fell at a steady pace, the air tinged with cold and darkness.

“He probably just forgot.” Ned blurted, hands fumbling with his bicycle lock.

“Yeah.’ MJ said absently, watching yellow and red leaves swirl down the drain. “Yeah, he probably just forgot.”

She pulled her bike to the curb, ignoring the rain that began to come down in sheets. They mounted their bikes and set off.

Ned and MJ pedaled down the street, wheels treading through rushing puddles of water. Despite her jacket and hood, MJ’s sopping hair fell into her eyes. Every so often, her sneakers would slip on the wet plastic of the pedals.

Peter’s house was only five minutes away from Ned’s; a one-story bungalow with rose bushes growing in the front garden. The living room window was warmly lit against the oncoming darkness.

They dropped their bikes and ran to the front door.

After ringing it for a few seconds, May Parker answered hurriedly before running back to the kitchen.

“Hey, May,” Ned greeted as he and MJ stepped into the house. The living room was colourful and bohemian; right out of the 90’s. The evening news hummed on the old television set as a slightly burnt smell wafted from the kitchen.

“Hey!” May Parker smiled, and MJ could see her fanning a pot of what might had once been a pot roast beneath the char.

Ned continued. “We were just wondering if Peter was around here? He didn’t come by like he said he would.”

“Oh,” May frowned, abandoning the dish to properly greet them. “Peter didn’t come home. I thought he went to your place early.”

“He never showed up.” MJ whispered, wringing her hands.

May’s smile dropped completely, face suddenly pale. “Jesus Christ.”

“You don’t think…” She couldn’t finish her sentence. Dread curled in MJ’s stomach as she watched May clap a hand over her mouth.

May turned and ran to the kitchen, grabbing the phone. Ned looked to MJ; eyes wide with panic.

MJ heard the dispatcher on the line. “911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi, yeah,” May was breathless. “I need to report a missing person.”

\---

Peter didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he woke up, head heavy and mouth dry. The lumpy pillow beneath his head was surprisingly comfortable, but the mattress was still hard and creaky. A rogue spring jabbed into his back.

He felt better rested than when he had woken up on the cement floor. There was no throbbing at the front of his head, or subtle nausea that roiled when he moved.

The room was so dark. Without any windows, it was impossible for Peter to tell what time it was, or even gage how long he had been asleep. His body’s clock assumed he had been asleep for more than five hours.

Groggy and out-of-body, Peter got up and turned on the light. The room was the same. He had really been kidnapped.

Kidnapped by Mr. Beck.

Peter repressed a shudder as he remembered the way his teacher had looked at him in the bathroom. Unspoken words still hung in the air; words that Peter prayed to god would stay buried.

Mr. Beck was much taller than Peter, and strong enough to have his way with him. The mere thought of that made Peter ill with terror.

Peter swallowed; forcing those thoughts away and wandering into the bathroom.

After relieving himself, he searched through the cupboards and drawers. All were empty, save for the last drawer under the sink. There was a thin tip black sharpie hidden at the very back. It worked, albeit a bit dried out.

Had Mr. Beck left this here? Peter stashed it in the pocket of his dress pants.

His reflection in the mirror was ragged and weary. His eyes were bloodshot, hair mussed from sleep. After turning on the tap and splashing his face with water, Peter felt a little more human.

As he turned to leave, dark shadows that mottled jaw caught this attention. Upon closer inspection, Peter noticed the purplish red bruises that marred his neck from where Mr. Beck had grabbed him in the car. They ached when he touched them or swallowed.

Hand still lingering at his throat, Peter left the bathroom, eyes landing on the bedside table. A plastic bottle of water sat there, next to a simple sandwich of peanut butter and jelly.

“I must not have noticed,” Peter murmured to himself, reaching over to inspect the water. It was sealed; never been opened prior.

Peter drank quickly, and ate even quicker. Hunger and food had crossed his mind before he had fallen asleep, but he did not realize how famished he was until the sandwich passed his lips.

Just as Peter seated himself on the bed, there was a knock at the door.

Peter jumped, watching the doorknob twist and slowly open, revealing Mr. Beck. He was wearing different clothes than yesterday’s slacks and button-down. Today was a charcoal grey sweater and dark jeans. He looked so normal and unassuming, it made Peter uneasy.

“Hey, Pete, how are you doing?” His voice was gentle.

Snappish remarks wanted to spill from his lips, but Peter grit his teeth, and merely shrugged. “I’m fine.”

Mr. Beck leaned against the door frame, surveying Peter. “That’s good. I need you well rested for today, we have a lot of work to get done today.”

“Work?”

“Photos,” he responded.

Peter stood, unsure of what to do or say.

Mr. Beck moved into his space, hand reaching out to touch Peter’s hair.

“You were out like a light.” He said softly, fingers playing with the unruly curls. “I was going to wake you earlier, but you looked so peaceful.”

Peter tried not to flinch away, or think about Mr. Beck watching him last night.

“What time is it?” He asked, changing the subject.

“Ten in the morning.”

“Jesus.” Peter’s mind swirled. It was Saturday already? He had been asleep for nine hours.

A heavy hand rested on his shoulder, steering Peter out of the small concrete room. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

\---

Plans and ideas formulated in his head with rapid succession, each weaker and more likely to get him killed that the last. Peter was in the same position like yesterday as Mr. Beck snapped more photos. His hands were tied in front of him this time. His nerves were shot when he decided to put his plan of action into motion.

Licking his lips, Peter sat up on his elbows and watched Mr. Beck at his work table. It took all the courage he had to speak.

“Can I use the bathroom?”

Mr. Beck did not look at him. “No. Hold it.”

“What? Do you want me to piss myself?” Peter snapped, feeling more angry than brave. “I need to use the bathroom. Now.”

The light left Mr. Beck’s eyes again, and Peter repressed a shudder. He hated how much he had trusted his teacher.

“Fine. Get up.”

Peter struggled to his feet, escorted by Mr. Beck towards his room.

_It’s now or never._

He kicked out wildly, catching Mr. Beck in the gut. His teacher keeled over, and Peter landed another solid kick, this time to the head.

As Mr. Beck went down, and Peter dashed to the staircase at the center of the room. The door at the top was unlocked, and not believing his good luck, Peter shot out like a bullet and slammed the basement door behind him.

Peter could not focus on any of the characteristics of the main floor. Instead, his eyes latched onto the front door.

Despite his tied hands, he managed to unlock the deadbolt and swing the door open.

A swell of euphoria entered Peter’s chest as the fresh, cold air hit his face.

It was bright outside, with thick clouds still covering the sky. The street was lined with suburban houses and lamps, with puddles dotting the street. A car drove by.

Just as Peter moved forward, ready to propel himself into the street, a hand shot out and gripping his hair. It wrenched him back and threw him into the house before a sound could leave Peter’s throat.

_No. I was so close._

“That was stupid,” growled Mr. Beck, dragging a screaming Peter back into the house. “That was really fucking stupid.”

_I can still make it. I know I can._

Peter thrashed, clawing at his teacher’s arm. “Let go!”

“Stop fucking fighting.” Mr. Beck continued to struggle, ripping Peter back into the dingy living room. “I said that’s enough, for fuck’s sake.”

Pulling him into the living room, Mr. Beck pushed Peter to the ground. His hip slammed into the wooden floor, with a thud.

“Say sorry to me.” His teacher said.

Peter’s lip curled, wanting to sneer. “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Beck reached down and grabbed Peter’s hair. “I’m sorry, who?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beck.” He spat, ignoring the anxiety that pulsed in his chest.

His teacher let go, stepping away from him. “Get up. _Now._”

Peter scrambled to his feet, trying not to shake with terror.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson, Peter.” Mr. Beck reached for a long, thin wooden cane that sat on the mantel above the fireplace. “Lay down on the couch.”

Across from the fireplace and coffee table was a simple, brown couch.

He swallowed. “No.”

“Get on the fucking couch!” Mr. Beck bellowed, slamming the end of the cane on the table.

The sound made Peter jump. His teacher’s voice brought a sudden rush of fresh tears to his eyes.

Peter shook his head, feeling the last of his resolve crumble. Mr. Beck’s eyes were dark and crazy as he stalked towards him.

“I said I was sorry!” Peter shouted, legs shaking while he backed away. “Please, don’t hurt me!”

“If you didn’t want to get hurt, you shouldn’t have tried to run.” There was that vice-like grip on his arm again, pushing him onto the couch.

The couch’s armrest pushed uncomfortably into Peter’s gut as he thrashed; face pressed into the couch cushion, legs hanging a few inches off the floor. He felt like a turtle or insect on it’s back, unable to move.

“Stay still, or it’ll hurt even more.”

The cane came down with a sickening crack against Peter, landing between his shoulder blades. The cry that tried to escape him was muffled by the couch cushion. It was more shocking and unexpected than painful.

“Count, Peter.”

He shook his head, face pressed against the fabric, weeping in pain.

“Count, or I won’t stop until you’re dead.” There was the light pressure of the wooden staff resting on his spine. Mr. Beck’s voice was so cold and cruel.

Pain, anguish, and grief all swirled chaotically in Peter’s system. He managed to twist his head to the left, not looking at his teacher when he whispered softly, “one”.

Mr. Beck hummed softly. “Good boy.”

He raised the cane above his head and brought it down again and again until Peter’s skin was red and bloody with welts. The blows graced his shoulder blades and back, sometimes so hard that he thought Mr. Beck would break a bone, or pierce an organ. The pain was indescribable. After what felt like hours, Peter’s energy wore out. It left him gasping into the cushion, babbling out numbers.

“Th-thirty f-five.” He choked out.

Dragging Peter off the couch, Mr. Beck ignored his garbled moans of pain and pulled him down the rickety stairs to the basement studio.

Peter felt like he was floating above his body. The pain was so intense, it choked and writhed, making every inch of him burn.

He was dumped back on the clear concrete floor, hot skin finding little mercy in the cold stone. Yellow circles and spots danced in his vision as Mr. Beck positioned himself above Peter, camera poised and ready.

“Yeah, just like that, Peter. You look so pretty when you cry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Peter, huh?


	4. May God Rebuke Him, We Humbly Pray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT PRE-NOTE FOR ALL READERS:  
Hey! VERY strong trigger warning for groping and assault in this chapter. Everyone who is sensitive to this type of material, please skip from “Peter’s breath caught in his throat… “ to “ He needed to get out of there, now.“. It is bolded in-text too for an extra warning. What happens to Peter in this chapter happened to me when I was a kid, the only difference from his situation and mine was how he reacted. I strongly encourage anyone who has experienced something similar what Peter experiences to go to someone they trust (A close friend, mentor, community therapist) and seek professional help, if they are still deeply affected. The road to recovery starts with asking for help! You can do this!

That night, MJ sits on the Parker’s front step, watching police cars and investigators arrive on scene. They question a frantic aunt May and Ned, scurrying around the house and front lawn. Neighbours had started to trickle out of their homes to see what was the matter. Faces of confusion and worry melted into faces of fear.

Another kidnapping in Cooperstown; but this abduction happened so close to home. Now, May Parker’s kind, quiet nephew was missing, without a single witness to testify, or a clue to find him.

MJ was numb. She watched the commotion from the sidelines, told repeatedly by officers that there was nothing she could do. From the corner of her eye, she saw a dark figure beneath an umbrella. An elderly woman with white hair and a stern yet fearful expression was taking in the entire spectacle. She stood on the sidewalk, shifting from foot to foot. MJ felt like the woman wanted to say something, but was standing on the outside of this bubble.

The woman took notice of MJ’s gaze. Eyes wide, she turned on her heel and marched hastily around the corner and out of sight.

MJ takes note of the elderly woman’s lined face, silver hair, and red umbrella, before standing up to go and comfort May Parker.

***

On a regular, night to night basis, Peter never dreams.

When he’s stressed or overly-tired, sometimes there’s the occasional giving-a-presentation-then-suddenly-I’m-naked-and-everyone-is-laughing nightmare. Besides this, the norm is murky pitch-blackness that came when he fell asleep, and left when he woke up.

After Mr. Beck beat the shit out of him, Peter was left with nothing but his dreams.

He drifted in and out of reality after his teacher placed the cane on the coffee table. Mr. Beck carried him like a rag doll downstairs, hefting his body in a fireman carry. Peter’s head jostled from side to side, aching from crying and screaming. The pain in his back was making his brain dull and stupid. It was as though all his thoughts were being put through a strainer, and what came out the other side was garbled, monosyllabic nonsense.

In the inky blackness, Peter sees his aunt’s face wearing a rare frown. She seems to stand on the edge of a dark room, while he stands in the center, unable move and reach out to her. Like a strike of lightning, Peter feels a sudden pain that burns the skin of his back.

_Something’s growing out of my skin. _Dream-Peter thinks to himself. _There’s no other explanation than that._

The aching grew unbearable, as bone burst from muscle and skin. Hot blood splattered against the black ground and coated his thighs. There was no breath in Peter’s chest. He was both drowning and completely empty. He tried to cry, but everything slowed down to a crawl. Peter needed to run, and save himself, but his arms and legs were so sluggish, he could not move.

“May, help me!” He choked out. “Please!”

But Aunt May was gone.

In her place was a mirror; thin and tall. Tall enough to reflect the pair of boney, bloody wings that stretched from Peter’s back. White feathers were stained red, and malting as soon as they had appeared; they burned before even touching the ground.

Just as he caught a glance at his figure, the mirror was gone, and Peter was flung through the darkness. He hit the floor, wings crunching beneath his broken body.

“Don’t move, Peter.”

A knife came down, piercing his left wing’s joint. Peter tried to scream, but nothing came out. Searing pain blurred his vision for a second. Before he could catch his breath, a second knife stabbed through his right wing.

Gravity shifted, and Peter felt his legs dangling. He was hanging by his wings, like a butterfly on display.

“My masterpiece.” Mr. Beck’s voice whispered in his ear. There was the snapping of a camera’s shutter, but the sound was magnified to echo as though they were in a cave. A hand slid from his exposed chest to his navel. “My beautiful masterpiece.”

This was enough to jerk Peter from his unconscious state.

“Fuck!” He cried, for every movement made the ache in his back worsen by one hundred percent. Peter’s head still throbbed, creating a swell of nausea at the back of his tongue. His mouth and throat were desert-like and hoarse.

He tried to rub the fatigue from his eyes, but a restraint around his left wrist stopped Peter. A cold metal handcuff attached his hand to the metal headboard.

“I didn’t expect you to sleep for so long.”

Peter’s head snapped up at the voice. It sent another wave of pain through his body, and made his vision swim. Black spots and indecipherable patterns swirled before his eyes.

Mr. Beck sat on a chair, at the edge of the mattress. He was hunched over, hair obscuring his dark eyes.

Peter rolled over. “Let me sleep more. I’m still tired.”

“Nope, I need to clean your back first.”

On the small bedside table was a container of salve and rolls bandages. Peter watched his teacher unscrew the jar and coat his fingers in the lotion. He motioned for him to turn around.

There was a second of hesitation. Not wanting to risk more brutality, Peter sat up and turned so that his back faced his teacher. Mr. Beck reached out, fingers sliding over Peter’s back and the feverish sores that marred it. He flinched at how cooling the touch was. The salve burned the ripe wounds.

“Don’t.” His voice was no louder than a murmur. “It hurts. Let me do it myself.”

“You can’t dress those with a hand cuffed.”

Peter smiled thinly over his shoulder. “Then uncuff me.”

“Sorry, no dice,” Mr. Beck did not look up. “Look, the less you disobey me, the less I’ll have to hurt you, is that clear?”

With exhaustion so thick in Peter’s head, he merely nodded. He felt wound up and tired at the same time. He just wanted to feel safe.

When Mr. Beck reached out and brushed the ointment against the bruises, Peter did not pull away.

“There we go,” he whispered.

The touch was so soothing and affectionate, Peter almost cried in anguish. There was a tight feeling in his chest that rose to his throat. The tightness choked him and brought tears to his eyes.

The ointment smelt so strongly of herbs and medicine; Peter’s head spun. Mr. Beck offered a mug of water. There could have been poison or drugs in the cup, but could not bring himself to care. He sipped the quietly as his back was bandaged. The water soothed his dry throat blissfully.

“Need to use the bathroom?”

He nodded, keeping his hands to himself as Mr. Beck slowly unlocked the handcuff. He was led to the bathroom and not given any privacy to relieve himself. Punishment for trying to run.

Peter didn’t know what to think. One moment, Mr. Beck would be remorselessly beating the hell out of him, the next, he was caressing Peter’s cuts and treating him like a child. It was confusing and sickening all at once.

He did not miss the way Mr. Beck watched him zip his pants up. His teacher led him back to the bedroom.

When they reached the bed, there was an uncomfortable pause. Mr. Beck stood behind Peter, saying nothing, doing nothing.

“Uh,” Peter said hoarsely. “Aren’t you going to handcuff me?”

**Peter’s breath caught in his throat.** There was nothing he could do but stand there, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, eyes wide. No tears formed or fell. Instead, Peter forced himself to look away. Shame burned hot in his face while a cold stone settled heavily in his gut.

He was touching him.

Mr. Beck pressed his palm into Peter’s crotch, fingers brushing against his thighs.

All the moisture in Peter’s mouth dissipated as his skin grew hot.

There was a yank behind his navel as the hand tightened, sending heaty sparks into his guts. The feeling was pleasant, and subdued the violent discomfort that swelled beneath Peter’s ribs. His body was acting of its own accord as Peter’s mind turned on auto pilot.

He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his body and hide under the blankets and forget that any of this ever happened. He wanted to be at home.

Mr. Beck’s thumb brushed over the button of Peter’s dress pants, slow and forceful. Before he could respond, Peter felt the solid weight of his teacher’s thigh press between his legs. his hands moved, one holding Peter’s wrist, and the other holding his waist. There was no comfort or affection in the touch; that was made clear when he tried to move, and Mr. Beck’s hold tightened.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, Peter?” Mr. Beck’s voice was slow and taunting. “You’re so obvious; I could see the way you looked at me during class. I should have taken you months ago. Ruined you and made you mine.”

Like a dam bursting open, panic flooded Peter’s body, threatening to drown him from the inside out. Everything happened in a flash; his hands grappled Mr. Beck’s throwing them off and pushing him away.

“Get the fuck off of me!” Peter snapped; eyes dark with anger. _How dare he fucking touch me._

**He needed to get out of there, _now._**

Mr. Beck’s face changed, mutating from passively dominant, to visibly enraged.

“You’re such a tease, Parker.” He stalked forward; eyes black. “You want to play games? Let’s play games.”

Mr. Beck dragged Peter out of the bedroom and into the basement.

“How about ‘Never Have I Ever’? Don’t teenagers always play that?” He dropped Peter on the concrete floor, not caring when he cried out. “‘Truth or Dare’? What do you want to do, Petey?”

There was that violence again. Peter shook with fear but did not answer.

“You’re quiet now?” Mr. Beck sneered. “Oh, I have an idea.”

From his waistband, he produced a revolver. Peter squirmed on his back. “Up for a game of Roulette?”

That elicited a panicked response. “Beck, please don’t. I’m sorry, just take me back to the room and we ca-“

The barrel was cold against his temple. His teacher was standing over him, gun pointed.

“Please! just fucking stop! Fuck, I’m sorry!” Peter shouted.

He pulled the trigger. Peter cried out, but there was no pain. There was no bang, but instead a quiet click. The chamber was empty.

“Jesus Christ,” Peter gasped, tears running freely down his face. He pressed his hands over his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Beck knelt down, straddling Peter. “I hope you’re lucky, Pete. I hope it doesn’t run out.”

He pointed the gun at him again, and spun the barrel.

***

MJ paced in front of Peter Parker’s house, Ned sitting on the porch with his chin in his hands. Ned was very pale, and bleary-eyed.

“We should just join the search party, MJ,” Ned whispered. “We would be more helpful there.”

She shook her head, still pacing.

“What are we even doing here? Peter’s not going to wander back home.”

“We’re waiting for her, Ned.”

“Her?”

“The old lady I saw yesterday when the police showed up,” MJ clarified. “She clearly knew something; she just didn’t want to speak with the investigators.”

Ned pointed across the street. "You mean that old lady?"

Sure enough, there was she was, standing with her umbrella and raincoat.

"Excuse me? Ma'am?" 

The elderly woman’s jumped at MJ’s words, and turned swiftly on her heel. She disappeared around the corner.

MJ frowned. “Ned, did you see that?”

“What? No.”

“Follow me,” She darted off, crossing the street without looking or waiting for Ned.

Ned balked. “MJ! Wait! You can’t just run after people like that!”

MJ chased after the woman while Ned sprinted to keep up.

“Ma’am! Excuse me! Can I speak with you!” She called to the elderly woman, “It’s about the kidnapping that took place yesterday!”

The old lady stopped dead in her tracks. When she turned around, her eyes were wide and watery.

“What do you want to know? How is that any of your business?” She snapped at MJ. “You kids need to stay out of this business!”

MJ took a deep breath. “My name is Michelle Jones, or MJ. This is Ned. We’re friends with the boy that went missing yesterday. We saw you there, at the Parker’s house yesterday.”

“I-I wanted to see what was the matter, that’s all,” she said defensively. “I don’t know anything.”

“Please, ma’am,” desperation crawled into her voice. “The boy that went missing is my friend. His name is Peter Parker. He lives just around the corner. He’s around five foot five with brown hair and really pale skin. You saw something, right?”

The woman’s lip trembled. Her eyes changed from fearful to determined. “M-my name is Peggy. Would the two of you like to come in for tea?

MJ looked at Ned, who shrugged helplessly. She turned back to Peggy. “We would love to.”

***

In his rage, Mr. Beck forgot to handcuff Peter back to the headboard. After three rounds of Russian Roulette that Peter successfully navigated, a phone rang upstairs. His teacher dragged him back to the room and locked the door.

He did not know how long he laid in bed after the incident with Mr. Beck. It seemed like an eternity, but who knew how long it actually had been. At one point, he fell asleep, waking only hours later.

Peter stood, ignoring the sting in his back and walked to the full-length mirror that rested against the wall. He was pale from exhaustion, and disheveled from mistreatment. There were dark circles around Peter’s eyes, and a red ring of irritated skin where the handcuff was. His clothes, the button-down shirt and black pants were wrinkled to the one hundredth degree.

Navigating Mr. Beck’s mood swings was the most stressful task Peter had besides staying alive. He wanted to escape; but, how could he?

Peter was about to turn back to the bed, when something at the edge of the mirror caught his attention.

Carved into the base board was the name Jason. Heart racing, Peter crossed the room and knelt down as slowly as possible; head lowered to read the name. He ran his fingers over the name. Jason. Jason Ionello.

The letters were sharp and embedded deep into the wood. He must have used some sort of knife to carve it in.

Under it, the name Douglas was scratched in, far less precise.

Seymour’s name was obscured by the leg of the bed frame, but there it was, written in thin black sharpie.

Next to it, in the same marker was Howard James Stacy, in neat script.

Brad was harder to find. Peter had to slide almost all the way under the bed to find his name. It was dark, but he managed to make out the beginning of a “Br” before it abruptly cuts off. There was a small nail, cold, metal and sharp on the ground beneath the unfinished name.

Peter had not realized he was crying until tears blurred his vision. Pressing a hand over his mouth, he suppressed the violent sob that tried to work its way out, and instead picked up the nail.

By the time he finished Brad’s name, the tears were gone, and the sob was packaged, deep in his bones.

Peter crawled out from under the bed, head spinning. Panic choked him. Should he carve his name into the base board? Was he going to die? Was he next?

_No. I’m going to see daylight again; I’m going to graduate, and leave Cooperstown, and live my life. I’m going to live._

After crawling out from the bed, Peter went to the door. He needed to act now, or never.

The lock was rusty and old. If Peter pushed the nail in at the right angle with enough pressure, he could imitate the key and unlock the door.

It took twelve tries exactly, and the nail combined with an old paper clip under the beside table to break open the lock. Peter was ecstatic by his triumph; ecstatic enough to forget all his anxiety for a moment.

The door creaked magnificently as he crept out of his confines. Was it Friday, or Saturday? If it was Friday, Mr. Beck would have to save face attend school, meaning the house was empty.

If it was Saturday, Beck would be in the house, somewhere.

This unsure knowledge did nothing to soothe him; Peter was clammy with terror. He retraced the steps of his failed escape up the basement stairs to the main floor.

The front door was right there.

_Finally._

Peter was about to race over, when an ajar door in the corner of his eye. The doorway was dark, only illuminated by red light. Curiosity burned at the edge of Peter’s vision.

Upon nearing, he realized that darkness completely shrouded the room. Whatever sunlight streamed through was tinged a bloody red by the tape that covered the window. Strings criss-crossed the ceiling, hanging so low that Peter had to stoop to avoid the photos that hung from them. The room had been converted from a bed room, into an office of a sorts. There were cupboards along the wall, with a sink in between, and a massive work desk in the center of the room. Papers, rolls of film, and folder were everywhere, leaving not a single clean surface.

Swallowing, Peter tentatively entered. Despite knowing that Mr. Beck was out of the house, the idea of him walking in at any second terrified him. 

Peter approached a string of photos, and nearly wretched at the images. They depicted Peter’s unconscious form in bed, hand cuffed to the headboard, shirt removed. There was a whole row of them; some with Peter facing the camera, others with his face obscured. A few had the blanket pulled away to show off his mottled skin.

There were strings of photos that depicted Peter’s first night in Mr. Beck’s house; hands tied behind his back, with a blindfold covering his eyes. Others showed Peter’s bloody, beaten spine and ribs, all stretched out on the sofa.

Peter wanted to be afraid, but the more he saw, the more his chest ached with grief. There was a Red Sox baseball cap in the closet, one too small to have been Mr. Beck’s. The black sharpie that Seymour and Howard had used was in the bottom drawer of the work table.

Another drawer was filled with neat stacks of photos, each more horrific than the last. Young men, the young men who went missing in various stages of mistreatment. Bloody, passed out, tied to chairs, they all looked miserable and scared. Peter wanted so desperately to crawl through the photos and save those boys.

But they were gone. They were no longer in the house, and no longer living.

Did Mr. Beck get sick of them? How much longer until he’s sick of Peter?

He scoured the surface of the desk, looking between bills and empty envelopes. A letter beginning with Mr. Beck’s first name caught Peter’s attention. The letter itself was printed on thick stationary in black ink. There was a crest at the top of the page.

_Quentin_, it started. _How have you been? _

_Those last few shots were absolutely stunning. I have no idea how you manage to pose your models like that. Those bruises and blood look so real! The one with the model tied to the pillar post-flogging was so evocative, I nearly came in my pants from just looking at it. _– Peter gagged – _I can’t wait for more. I’ve got another commission for you. I’m looking for more kidnapping themed photos; subject being male, thin, dark haired, preferably adolescent. Have anyone in mind? I’ll pay you $3,500 for three sets of photos._

_Sincerely, _it finished, _Lucien Cravous._

Peter felt his stomach drop. He darted around the room, looking at each string of pictures. Him blindfolded, handcuffed, and beaten…

A set of three. The set was complete.

Mr. Beck was finished with him.

“Shit,” Peter hissed. He shouldn’t have looked around; he should have just gotten out of Beck’s house the moment he was free. “Shit.”

There was a creak of floorboards behind him.

“Hey there, Peter,” Mr. Beck said, voice dangerously low. “What are you doing in here?”


	5. He is the Beginning, the Middle, and the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE trigger warning for sexual assault. It’s not too graphic, but its still incredibly dark. In no way am I condoning Beck’s actions. He is a real piece of evil shit that hurts kids; I wrote this story to explore how terrible people in positions of power can be. Teachers are supposed to be role models, but in this story, Beck takes and abuses his power. He is a villain that should not be sympathized with.
> 
> The assault starts at “He settled for a moment;” and ends at, “With all his might, Peter twisted and pushed”

MJ sat next to Ned on the floral love seat in Peggy Carter’s living room, sipping sickly sweet tea. Peggy set a plate of fresh biscuits on the coffee table. She was anxious; constantly wringing her hands, sitting down then standing up to re-arrange the photos on the mantel, eyes darting around the room.

Peggy’s house was small, but not cramped. Tall shelves filled with books lined the walls. White, starched curtains hung from every window.

Ned leaned over and whispered in MJ’s ear. “Is this _really_ worth missing school? What if you’re completely wrong?”

“If I’m wrong, then whatever. It’s just school,” she held back her frustration. “But if she knows something, we’ll be able to find Peter.”

They watched the elderly woman set another tray, this one full of sliced fruit, onto the table.

“So,” Peggy sat across from them_. _“What do you want to ask me, Miss Jones?”

Her elegant British accent was soothing to the ear. “Well, Mrs. Carter, we wanted to know if you saw anything happen down the street last Monday afternoon? Anytime between three and five?”

“This is about that missing boy, correct?”

“Yes. His name is Peter Parker; he’s our friend.”

She hummed]. “Close friend?”

“The closest,” Ned whispered.

MJ spoke. “So, do you remember seeing him?”

For a second, Peggy’s eyes clouded over. Her brows knit themselves together.

Ned and MJ shared a nervous glance. “Is there a problem, Ma’am?”

“Oh no, nothing at all, its just…” She sighed. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. Especially recently.”

MJ could feel her heart drop. “Well, if you could recount anything, really, it would be helpful. Anything at all.”

“I’m not sure…”

“He was wearing a blue sweater and black jeans,” supplied Ned. “His backpack is like this maroon-y reddish colour with a lot of patches and badges about science.”

MJ reached into her bag. “Here, I have a photo of him somewhere.”

She had to take time to rifle through her bag. It was filled with numerous files; each had a different suspect and their credentials. Addresses, alibis, ulterior motives, MJ had tried to cover every angle and find every scrap of information about the teachers, citizens, and janitors that were implicated in the previous kidnappings.

“Sorry,” she muttered, placing the files on the coffee table to search further for the picture.

Peggy eyed the papers, reading their names. She reached for the papers, hesitantly. “May I?”

“Oh, of course.” MJ was surprised the elderly woman was interested in her amateur detective work. “Those are some-“

“Suspects?” Peggy pulled out her reading glasses. “People within the school community? Or also outside in the public?”

“Anyone who has a connection to the students, regardless of school affiliation. It just so happens that they’re mostly teachers.”

“That makes sense,” Peggy flipped through the files with a newfound earnest. “I suppose they all have alibis for the kidnappings?”

“They do.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever’s doing this is has a specific method and style; they’ve covered all their basis and know how to abduct young men without getting caught. They have to be a near professional.”

MJ’s eyes widened. “T-that’s exactly what I thought.”

“How do know that?” Ned asked, infinitely more interested now.

Peggy’s smile was tinged with bitterness “In my younger days, I worked with the government. I’ve worked on cases like this before.”

As Ned digested this, MJ finally pulled out the photograph. “Here, this was taken a few months ago.”

It depicted Peter just before the last day of grade 11, grinning next to Aunt May.

Peggy took the image from MJ, inspecting it closely. “Handsome boy. This is his aunt, yes? I’ve seen her around the neighbourhood.”

MJ nodded.

“She’s been really upset,” Ned added. “We’re trying to help out. Well, MJ more so. She’s been putting a case together.”

“You have the beginnings of something strong.” Peggy looked back at the open file. “It’ll take more clues and a bit more s-”

She cut herself off. Peggy’s eyes seemed to have latched onto something within the folder.

“What is it?” MJ asked, moving to sit next to her.

Peggy’s wrinkled hand pushed side written statements to pull out a different photograph; this one depicted a black Toyota Corolla. It was shiny, with not a single scratch or bump anywhere on the surface. Probably recently purchased.

“I remember this car,” Peggy whispered.

MJ’s head shot up. “What?”

“It was there, that day that boy went missing.”

“What happened?” MJ probed.

“I saw the young man walking down the street in the rain.” The fog that clouded her eyes cleared. “This car was driving behind him. I-I stopped watching after the boy caught my eye.”

MJ could barely speak. “Why did you stop watching? He was in danger!”

Peggy sat up straighter, lips in a straight line. “He wasn’t afraid. I remember him choosing to get into the car.”

“He... chose to get in?”

“Yes, I remember that quite clearly. He folded his umbrella and got in.”

MJ tapped her chin. “Then, Peter must have known the driver. He’s not stupid, he would never get into a stranger’s car.”

“Do you think the driver of the car was the kidnapper?” Ned asked MJ eagerly.

“Definitely.” said MJ. “If not the kidnapper, they were definitely the last one who saw him.”

She turned to Peggy. “Did you get a license plate? We need to be absolutely sure.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peggy’s face crumpled, brows knitted. “It was quite far away; I didn’t have my glasses.”

“It’s alright,” Ned placated. “Whose file is this, MJ?”

She flipped through a few pages, stopping dead in her tracks when she read the file’s name. A stone settled in her gut. This was what she was afraid of from the beginning.

“Oh no.”

Ned looked panicked. “What’s wrong?”

MJ looked up, face ashen.

“It’s Mr. Beck.”

***

“You know,” Mr. Beck voice was conversational, but his eyes were dark and predatory. “I was on my way to school with the full intention of attending the assembly vigil to celebrate Peter Parker. But then,”

He steps closer, and Peter’s hand shot out and grabbed the nearest weapon he could find. A penknife. It wasn’t the most threatening device, but it could still hurt. Carefully, Peter stepped away from Beck, rounding the worktable.

“-my phone told me that someone triggered my office alarm.”

Peter stood up straight; penknife raised. “Why did you lie to me?”

“About what?”

“K-killing the other boys. You said you had nothing to do with them.” His eyes darted to the doorway. He was so close, if he could just run, he’d be free.

“I never lied, Peter,” Beck said evenly. “Lucien killed those boys. He asked me to.”

“No,” Peter whispered. “Lucien doesn’t know those pictures are real. He thinks you staged them! You’re a murderer, and a fucking pedophile.”

Mr. Beck pretended to look wounded, hands raised so Peter could see he was weapon-less. He approached slowly, floorboards creaking as he moved. “You’re gonna hurt my feelings, Pete. Careful.”

“I don’t give a shit,” spat Peter, but he took a shaking step backwards. “Stay away from me.”

That was when Beck lunged, grabbing his wrist and twisting the knife out of his hand. It clattered to the ground, and Peter shouted at the sharp pain that flourished. He tried to push him off, but Mr. Beck grabbed his other arm. Beck was strong; strong enough to fight against a skinny teenager who can’t lift more than 75 pounds on a regular day.

“Let me go!” Peter kicked his shins. “Fuck off!”

He managed to slip a hand from the tight hold and forced Beck’s face away from him. While blood pounded violently in his ears, his fingers searched for his eyes. Stomach clenching, Peter raked his fingers over his teacher’s face, feeling his nails dig into skin.

As Beck howled in pain, Peter slipped away quickly. After taking one last glance at the room, memorizing the photos and papers, he darted back into the foyer.

Peter turned for the front door. His hand latched onto the knob, twisting and pulling it open for a second, feeling a gentle gust of cold air. He saw a flash of afternoon light. As soon as it was open, Mr. Beck’s hand slapped against it, slamming the door closed. His face was red and bloody with dark hair hanging over his wild, black eyes.

“Get back downstairs,” he growled between heaving breaths. “I’m not finished with you, yet.”

Even with fear’s vice on his throat, Peter’s foot shot out, hitting Beck right in the groin.

He groaned, dropping to his knees and blocking the door. Peter, overcome with bravery, kicked Mr. Beck again before running back into the house. There had to be a backdoor. There had to be another way out of this hellhole. From the foyer, Peter raced back into the living room; it connected to the kitchen and dining room. His mind raced back and forth, unable to formulate a plan.

The kitchen had beige cabinets and off-white tiles. The dining table was shoved into an empty corner of the room, piled with folders and dirty coffee cups. Should he grab a knife? Did he have the guts to stab him?

“Think, think, think,” Peter hissed to himself. No back doors in the kitchen. He ran to the window over the sink and tried to force it open, to no avail. Outside, the sky was clouded over with grey.

“You’re going to fucking pay for that!” Beck shouted from the foyer, footsteps approaching.

Fear flashed hotly beneath his skin. Peter had to act fast and escape.

Grabbing a chair from the dining table, he hefted it and chucked it at the sink window. With magnificent racket, the glass shattered while the chair tumbled back into the kitchen. Glass crunched under Peter’s shoes when he ran to the window.

He gripped the windowsill, not noticing the shards that sliced through his palm. Peter was so fucking close; he could smell the petrichor on the pavement. While hoisting himself up onto the kitchen counter with blood-slick hands, Mr. Beck charged into the kitchen.

“Oh no you don’t,” He snapped, racing over and grappling Peter around his waist. “Get the fuck down. Now!”

He lifted him up, hauling Peter away from the open window.

“No! Please!” he screamed himself hoarse, praying that anyone one outside could hear him. “Help! Somebody help me, please!”

Beck’s massive hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his plea. Peter could barely breathe; his lungs were so tight, he thought they were going to burst open. Dread stayed tightly coiled in his gut. Was his escape a complete failure?

“I’m getting sick and tired of this, Peter,” he said, voice oddly calm. “This stupid little escaping act is exhausting for me. You’re proving yourself to be more trouble than worth.”

Peter’s body was dragged savagely into the hallway. Beck threw him down, not caring when his wounded back hit the ground with a loud _thud_. The hall was so dark, Peter could only see the outline of his teacher’s burly form.

“Wait,” Peter used his elbows to crawl away. “No.”

Then Beck was on top of him, pinning him down by the neck with one hand. He struggled, scrabbling at the hand that tightened around his windpipe.

“Stop fucking fighting,” Mr. Beck whispered coldly, lifting Peter’s head and smashing it into the floor.

The impact rocked his head, forcing his teeth to clamp down on his touch. Blood swelled around the electric pain. In his daze, Mr. Beck grabbed the front of Peter’s pants, dragging his hips up. He felt numb and cold. Beck shifted quickly, settling between Peter’s legs.

“Get off of me.” Peter slurred; his body already exhausted from kicking and the screaming. Nothing but adrenaline propelled him to keep his wits about him. “Please, don’t do this.”

He settled for a moment; head tilted in contemplation. In the dark, Peter could not see Beck’s face. He reached out tentatively and slid a hand up his teacher’s chest in a silent plea. Peter could feel and hear each laboured breath. The kitchen’s light back lit him, shrouding Beck in darkness.

“Please,” He repeated, fingers trembling. At the back of Peter’s mind, he knew what was about to happen. It scared the hell out of him.

Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He was so tired of everything; of fighting and surviving. A sob ripped from his bleeding mouth. He cried as Mr. Beck ripped the buttons of his pants, hand diving in to pull down Peter’s underwear.

Beck leaned down, lips pressing against Peter’s ear. “This is your punishment. Take it like an adult.”

Cold air brushed against his bared groin and he tried to press his knees together. Mr. Beck sat back up and made a quiet _tsk _noise before yanking them back open to expose him. Panic rose high in Peter’s throat, suffocating him as harshly as Mr. Beck’s hand was. He was light-headed and nauseous. This couldn’t be happening.

Thick fingers brushed over his cock and traced the shape of his balls, invading Peter’s space. Electric sparks flared in his stomach. They betrayed the fear that flickered in his head.

“You like that?”

Peter shook his head. He grabbed Beck’s hand, only to be pushed aside. His teacher forced it away, trapping it under one knee and doing the same with Peter’s other free hand.

Beck reeled back and slapped him hard across the face. “Don’t stop me. Or else.”

Blood pumped painfully in Peter’s heart as his cheek stung. He squeezed his eyes closed to stop more tears. His bloodied tongue felt heavy and dumb in his mouth, as though he was dreaming.

Sudden dry heat and pressure pushed into his ass. It burned and made Peter’s hips twist away. The fingertip slid out while Mr. Beck’s head tilted. He didn’t seem angry anymore; he was surly and curious.

He wasn’t actively hurting him just yet; he was exploring, and it made Peter sick.

Peter had jerked off before (he was a teenage boy, so of course), but he had never tried this. He was too afraid to be intrigued.

The finger plunged back in, this time to Beck’s knuckle. This made Peter scream. There was too much friction and discomfort for it to feel pleasurable. Instead, he felt nothing but distress and heated pain. The digit pushed in and out at a steady pace, burning as it opened him up. Peter canted his hips, thighs flexed, trying for force Beck away. Tears fell into his hairline as he cried out.

A hand shot into his vision as Beck slapped him again. “Don’t cry, or else I’ll make sure it really fucking hurts.”

Peter bit his lip to stop the sobs from escaping as a second finger was added in. The stretch was painful and violating; he wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

Beck’s emotions were fluctuating again. He was hot and cold, angry then sullen. Peter didn’t know how to navigate whatever dangerous mood he was in.

Beck’s free hand slid down Peter’s hip to cup his cock. It sent more sparks into his navel, adding to the mounting pressure in his belly. The grip became tight enough to cut off circulation. His thumb brushed against the tip of his dick, sliding back and forth, making Peter shudder and flinch involuntarily. As he moved, his teacher’s fingers brushed harshly against his prostate.

A choked groan left Peter’s clamped lips. It felt… strange.

From the kitchen’s broken window, Peter heard sirens in the far, far distance.

Beck released Peter’s dick to reach up and stroke his aching face. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

He shook his head weakly. _Get away, get away, get away._

“Hm,” Beck traced the underside of Peter’s cock, smearing pre-cum all over. He was hard, dick jumping to attention at the delicate touch. “I think you’re lying.”

Mr. Beck’s fingers moved faster, pumping in and out at a brutal pace. “You know I don’t like it when you lie. I know you want this. You’ve wanted me to fuck you since the first day of photography class.”

His fingers raked against Peter’s prostrate, making him bite down a scream. The pressure was mounting so quickly. Peter unwillingly snapped his hips against Beck’s hand, forcing them deeper.

“Yeah, just like that,” He grunted, sliding a third finger in.

Peter’s mouth fell open in a silent shout.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like this a lot better,” Beck hummed cruelly. He could hear the jangle of Beck’s belt as he undid it, slowly unzipping his pants.

_No. No, please._

Peter had to find the energy to fight and get out of there. A makeshift plan with plenty of holes formulated within the second.

Run. All he needed to do was run.

With all his might, Peter twisted and pushed. He used Beck’s thigh as leverage to push away and further into the hallway. With the distance he created, Peter kicked and landed another sharp jab to Beck’s groin. As fast as his exhausted and tangled legs could, he scrambled to stand while pulling up his underwear.

“Get back here you little shit!” Mr. Beck roared.

But Peter didn’t look; instead, he sprinted to the front door. His legs throbbed and threatened to give out beneath his weight. He could hear Beck’s pounding footsteps as the door swung wide open.

He practically threw himself outside and slammed the door behind him

***

Peter raced into the street, catching glances of blue and red flashing lights and people standing on the road. He heard someone call his name.

He did not see the figure in front of him.

He collided head on with someone, and they crashed to the pavement. The person cried out in surprise as Peter fell back.

It took him a second to realize who it was.

“MJ?” He was so shocked and conflicted. He was happy to see her, but they were now both in danger. “What are you doing here?”

She sat up, rubbing her head. “Rescuing you, Peter. Are you okay!”

“Not yet,” Peter said hurriedly. “We need to get out of here right now or else Beck is going to kill us!”

“It’s okay!” MJ stood and reached down to pull him up. “I didn’t come alone!”

Before he could speak, a loud voice bellowed through a megaphone.

“COOPERSTOWN POLICE. COME OUT OF THE HOUSE WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”

Peter looked around, taking in the sight.

The people he had seen on the road were police officers and detectives; armed to the teeth with bulletproof vests and guns. One officer hefted a battering ram. Among the police cruisers were ambulances and firetrucks; EMTs were at the ready, standing at the edge of the scene in front of a group of citizens. Residents of the area were murmuring to each other, all looking anxious. A few news reporters and cameramen stood here and there.

Two officers broke through the line, moving fast towards Peter and MJ.

“You two! Get down!”

The officers grabbed them by their arms and hauled them away from the house. When they made it to the line of police, a detective seized MJ’s shoulder and shook her.

“Never run into danger like that again, is that clear?” The detective was tall with short blonde hair and piercing eyes.

MJ looked sheepish. “Sorry, detective Danvers.”

Detective Danvers raised an eyebrow but said nothing; she was clearly busy. Her radio crackled to life, blaring out a report about movement within the house.

“Copy that,” She responded, pulling out a pistol from her holster. “Tell the squads to await my signal, I’m going in.”

Peter watched her move to the front of the house, making a few intricate hand signals. One squad of officers to go around the back of the house. Detective Danvers walked carefully up the steps with three officers behind her, guns all drawn. She knocked.

“Cooperstown Police, open up!”

No response.

She nodded the officer with the battering ram. He swung it back slowly before slamming it into the door. It burst open like a popped balloon. The officers swarmed into the house, one after the other.

Peter stood there, shoulders tense. Where was he?

“What’s going on in there?” He whispered to MJ.

She looked around, eyes latching onto another detective. “Hey, what’s happening right now?”

The man was dark skinned with an eye patch. At first, he was incredulous, but with one look at Peter, he stalked over.

“Are you Peter Parker?” He asked quickly.

Peter nodded, relief slowly washing over him in waves. “I am. Where’s May Parker?”

The detective looked as relieved as he felt. “She’ll be here soon, son. My name is Detective Fury, I’ve been trying to locate you for the past three days. Once an EMT checks you out, I’ll need to take a full testimony of your kidnapping.”

The thought of retelling the events of the past few days sounded nauseating.

But Peter nodded instead and responded. “Where should I go?”

Detective Fury walked him and MJ to the nearest ambulance. He spoke while they walked. “They’re raiding the house right now. They’ll find this ‘Quentin Beck’ and any evidence of the kidnappings.”

A paramedic with a sharp jawline and crystal blue eyes helped Peter into the back where all the fancy equipment was. He introduced himself as Steve while he checked Peter’s bruises and the cut on his tongue.

“The worst is on the back,” Peter whispered.

Steve met his eyes and nodded.

MJ left to go find Ned and Aunt May. Before she returned, Ned had raced out of nowhere, looking terribly out of breath and red. He clambered into the Ambulance and sat next to Peter.

“Ned, hey,” Peter tried to keep his voice neutral. It was somewhat overwhelming to be surrounded by so many different people at once. He remembered lying in bed at night, thinking he would be alone forever. More tears began to form.

“Hey,” Ned whispered. “Are you okay?”

“I’m a lot better now.”

Ned swallowed, turning to Steve. “Are you gonna take him to the hospital?”

Steve nodded. “Once I tell Detective Fury, we’ll be on our way.”

“Can I ride with him?”

“I’m sorry,” He looked apologetic. “Only family can ride with the patient; it’s our policy.”

Ned looked down but said, “That’s okay.”

“Thanks, Ned.” Peter took his hand and squeezed it. “I really appreciate it.”

He smiled, eyes shining. “No problem, Peter. I’m just really glad you’re okay.”

“Me too, man.”

“Hey, Steve?” Peter called to the front seat. “Can I step out for a minute? I just want to see what’s happening.”

He looked tense for a moment, clearly wanting to say ‘no’, but his partner in the driver’s seat smiled easily and responded first.

“Sure, kiddo. Just don’t stray too far from the ambulance.”

“Thanks...” Peter read his nametag. “James?”

“Call me Bucky.”

“Okay, thank you, Bucky.”

Peter and Ned stepped down from the ambulance, eyes immediately glued to Mr. Beck’s house. The front door was still wide open, but there was now shouting and noise from withing.

“What’s happening?” Ned asked no one in particular.

Peter squinted. “I dunno. I can’t tell.”

He felt oddly calm. It was as though everything that had happened within the past seventy-two hours was being forgotten. Despite this, his body remembered every touch and slap. Peter’s skin crawled as he pulled the blanket Steve gave him around himself.

No. He was free. He escaped.

There was a commotion at the front of the house. Officers trickled out of the house, trailing behind Detective Danvers. She marched with her head held high. In front of her was Mr. Beck with his hands cuffed behind his back; posture slouched. His eyes had lost that crazed, animalistic quality and now seemed dull. Defeated.

Even at the distance, Peter could feel his stomach drop and the chill return to his flesh.

“Peter!” MJ shouted.

He turned and saw her racing towards him.

“They got him!” She yelled.

_They got him._ Peter felt his face crumple, hands covering his mouth. He wept, unable to stop the shaking sobs that rattled his chest.

Ned timidly wrapped an arm around his trembling shoulders while MJ pulled him into a tight hug.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re going to be okay.”

He held on.

“P-Peter?”

He looked up. His eyes were blurry from tears, but he made out the long brown hair and floral print of Aunt May. Detaching himself from his friends, Peter turned and sniffed.

His aunt walked quickly, face transitioning from panicked to relieved; so relieved that tear began to flow down her cheeks.

“H-hey Aunt M-May,” Peter coughed. “How are you doing?”

“How am I doing?” She asked incredulously, still crying. “I’m doing good, honey. Are… are you okay, Peter?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, Peter enveloped her in a hug, feeling the safest he had in days. “I missed you so much. I… I didn’t-”

“Shh,” May whispered. “I’ve got you, Pete.”

***

They sat together on the back of the ambulance. Peter had his head rested against May’s shoulder, smelling the scent of her warm, seaside perfume. Every time he closed his eyes, sleep threatened to overtake him. MJ and Ned were speaking to Detective Danvers and Fury.

They had come over to tell Peter that Beck was in a cruiser, awaiting transport to the nearest station.

MJ and Ned were grim. When he asked how they knew where he was, they had shared a look.

“Long story short, I saw you shatter the window,” MJ had explained. “We knew we couldn’t get you out of there alone, so I called the police and told them what we saw-”

“And they sent down the whole freaking cavalry,” Ned had finished.

Bucky informed Peter that they were going to move him to the hospital in ten minutes, after the small horde of residents and journalists were cleared.

May was quietly telling Peter about her snobby coworkers to distract him when Detective Danvers wandered over.

“Hey, Peter Parker,” She smiled. “We’re going to need a full statement from you about the past three days. I know it’s going to be hard, but you’re the only one who knows the full story. Is that okay?”

Peter lifted his head and nodded. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Only if you want one.”

He smiled weakly. “Where is he?”

Detective Danvers nodded towards a police cruiser a few metres away from the ambulance. Peter gathered his courage and stood, walking towards the car. A now familiar anxiety prickled the back of his neck. He stooped a little to peer through the window, searching for Beck’s face in the tinted interior.

“I can’t see anything,” He murmured.

Stepping back, Peter’s breath stopped in his chest.

The door of the far side of the car was ajar.

“He’s not there,” Peter choked.

Detective Danvers’ smile faded. “What?”

“He’s not in the fucking cruiser!”

Her eyes widened, mouth agape. “Fuck.”

Detective Fury grabbed his radio. “I need an APB on Quentin Beck. Description; middle-aged, dark hair, muscular build. Wanted for multiple accounts of kidnapping and alleged murder. We need to send an alert out for-”

Peter gagged, trepidation suddenly overwhelming his system. He leaned over, hands on his knees, retching and spitting.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fu-_

“Peter,” a gentle, cool hand rested itself on his back. It rubbed soothing circles and he spat.

May crouched down. “Peter. You’re safe. Take a deep breath, okay, honey?”

“He’s still out there, he’s gonna find me, May. I have to… I have to-”

“No,” She said firmly. “You don’t have to do anything. We’re going to go to the hospital and make sure you’re healthy. Then, Detective Danvers is going to take your statement. Okay? That’s all you have to do right now.”

“May,” he closed his eyes, remembering the last minutes he had been in the house. “I don’t know If I can tell them everything. It was-”

“Peter,” she said softly, brows knit. “It’s alright. Let yourself rest. Please. You need to rest.”

After a few deep breaths, Peter let May and Steve lead him back to the ambulance. He sat on the stretcher, holding his Aunt’s hand as Bucky closed the doors. MJ and Ned waved goodbye, looking more unsettled than before. May’s hand tightened around his when the truck hummed to life.

As the ambulance drove down the street, Peter watched the faces of neighbours zoom past the back windows.

An old woman with silver hair and a hazy face waved as the vehicle trundled by.

_I’m safe._ He said to himself. _I’m safe._

He _is _safe.

He's safe for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is supposed to be the end. I might write an epilogue? maybe, but still, this is a pretty solid, open-ended ending. Thanks for reading and giving me so much support throughout the entire writing process!

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr!](https://ambien-dreams.tumblr.com)


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